


Swing Shifts

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, First Time, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Large Cock, Multi, Polyamory, Strip Tease, Threesome, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Heavy is very happy with his Doktor, but the Medic suspects Miss Pauling might have her eye on his favourite Russian giant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, was I the only person who saw somethin’ between Heavy and Pauling in the Shadow Boxers comic? Sure, I might’ve been reading with shipping goggles on, but HEY. Why the heck not. Therefore! I present to you this… uh, thing. Critique is highly encouraged.
> 
> Warning for a teensy bit of cultural fetishisation and some weird formatting.
> 
> Oh and, this is meant to take place a short time BEFORE the events of the Mecha-Update, y’all. Err, enjoy.

As yet another meeting came to a close, the formerly RED Heavy kept his face schooled into an expression of tough-guy disdain. Mostly, he played the role of ‘strong and silent’ at these gatherings, as the teams discussed with Miss Pauling the next move against those damnable robots. Infrequently was he asked to share opinions or insights, except by Miss Pauling herself, who probably only wanted to make him feel included or some such thing. He doubted that the PhD in Russian Literature listed in his files made her believe he was any sort of military tactician. He extended her at least the courtesy of assuming she wasn’t stupid.

Walking down the cement-floored hallway gave him flashbacks to BLU bases, but the illusion was ruined by RED’s Scout yammering on to BLU’s Sniper about how it was “mad friggin’ obvious” that Miss Pauling wanted him. She was just playing hard-to-get, he claimed, and besides, she kept turning her back to him to show him her behind in that little dress of hers, and it was really just sad, he said, that she was too shy and intimidated by his good looks to act on it. The Sniper didn’t say much in response, and didn’t even seem to be looking at the kid as they all progressed out of their impromptu stronghold. When the Scout’s monologue became raunchier, and from there became downright crude, the RED Engineer looked like he wanted to smack the Scout a good one, for disrespecting a lady, and the BLU Soldier for insubordination towards a superior officer, but RED’s Demo beat them to it, his broad hand cuffing the boy upside the head and knocking his hat and headset askew.

"Tha’s no way to talk aboot a respectable lass!" the explosives expert asserted. "An’ ye’ll never make a respectable lad o’ yerself thon way, neither."

"Ow! Shit! Stoppit, you ain’t my Ma!" the Scout protested, whipping the hat off his head to rub at the sore spot.

"Thank heaven for small favours!" came the heavily-accented reply.

The Heavy shook his head and glanced to the right. He shared a look of long-suffering with his former team’s Medic. The formerly BLU Pyro shuffled past with hands thrown up in dismissal. That Scout went through this song and dance in some variation after every meeting. The Heavy felt badly for the woman; it had to be awkward. But, she seemed perfectly capable of ignoring even the most insistent of the Bostonian’s babbling, and didn’t let it interfere with her work. He, at the very least, respected that, and while the part of him that was still older brother to a number of impressionable young women wanted to shield Miss Pauling from Scout’s clumsy advances, he realized it was not his place. The petite lady in purple polyester was no shrinking violet. In fact, he’d run into her at an ammunitions depot once, buying .44 Remington Magnum cartriges. Big bullets for a little lady.

He’d wanted to ask her about it, what gun was she buying the bullets for, did she go shooting on weekends for fun, did she have other guns, or were the bullets not even for her? For some reason he hoped they were. He wondered if she was a good shot and had the feeling that she was. With recoil like she was likely to get from a .44 she’d better be. She didn’t seem like the Smith & Wesson type, or the kind of lady to be swayed by pop culture enough to own a Colt. Maybe a Ruger? A Ruger Blackhawk, maybe, of the more recent ‘three-screw’ design. He doubted she’d have any special finishes or engraving on it; it would be simple and elegant with enough firepower to get the job done.

He couldn’t ask her, not then. It was before this fight with the interminable robot hoardes, before… before a lot of things, back when she only appeared on rare occasion to drop off particularly unstable new weapons and the like. Actually, if memory served, it was shortly after that instance at the ammo store that she brought that pushy film director to interview them all, and it was shortly after that when things started becoming more and more bizarre.

That was a long time ago, it seemed. He must have sighed because the Medic patted his forearm as they emerged into the light of the setting sun. The orange glow of a desert sunset agreed with his Doktor, making him look fiery and triumphant as he did during an übercharge. He smiled tiredly at the other man, and clapped him gently on the shoulder. They walked together to the Medic’s ambulance where the doctor offered to drive the Heavy into town. The bases were no longer safe, and both of them were quite far from home— while their former team’s Spy had rented a cabin for himself somewhere and the Snipers were content to sleep in their campers as always, many of the others had taken to renting hotel rooms in Teufort, so as to be close to the action when the next call for battle went out.

It was adequate cover.

Plus, the back of the ambulance was just about large enough for the Heavy to sit comfortably, as the Medic made the bumpy drive to the nowhere town that was Teufort. They pulled into the lot of a hotel that, prior to the operations of RED and BLU in the area, was more accustomed to families coming from California with their Airstream trailers and going to California with their Yellowstones. They sat in the hotel’s attached bar for a period of time, requisite to a façade of normalcy in front of their peers.

"Would you care for a game of chess?" the Medic asked, after a slowly nursed drink and some smalltalk with others among their ranks. It was a codeword, really, and Heavy stood, barstool scraping the floor and nearly drowning out his murmured "Da."

They trekked up to the Medic’s rented room, with the echo of a thick Southie accent saying, “Those two sure play a lotta chess,” behind them. The Heavy stifled a laugh.

With the door shut and bolted behind them, the Medic slowly strode to the bed, unbuttoning his coat and only turning to look at the Heavy, over his shoulder no less, when it hung off his arms like the shawl of a silver screen starlet. The Heavy sat at the desk chair and removed his socks and boots, but otherwise remained passive, to watch what he expected would be one of his Doktor’s strange strip-teases.

The coat hit the floor, but the Medic could not let it lie there; he kicked it up with the toe of his jackboot and caught it deftly with one hand. He turned his back on the Heavy as he found a hanger, swayed his hips as he tucked its wooden points into his coat’s shoulders, turned again to face his lover whilst loosening his tie and grinning a little too wide. He did not undo his tie completely, but stripped off his gloves, one finger at a time and then a slow pull, to be tossed on the desk behind the Heavy. With his fingers bare, he slowly popped the buttons on his vest, one, then the next, then finally, the last, squeezing each shiny black round through its buttonhole at an agonizing pace. The vest fell to the crooks of his elbows, then off one arm to slide down the other, caught, and hung next to the coat in a twirl of motion. Then, the tie, at long last, was pulled from its knot, but not removed, oh no! He’d let it hang around his neck as he untucked, then unbuttoned his dress shirt, from neck to navel, partially turned away. The Heavy’s eyebrows shot up— the Medic wasn’t wearing an undershirt. For his Doktor, this was practically going naked. He could hardly believe it, all through that meeting, the Medic had sat without the barrier of soft cotton between his flesh and the starched button-down, the stiff fabric rubbing against his sensitive nipples whenever he moved. He felt himself growing hard at the thought, marvelled at how the Medic had re-written his ideas of what was sexy, and wondered if the man had gone without his undershirt on purpose, in preparation for this reveal.

"Nnnn, Doktor," he rumbled, earning him a quick quirk of the lips from the Medic who turned his back again, pulled the two sides of his shirt as if straightening it out, causing the shirttail to lift and show the curve of his rear in his trousers as he bent forward to pull the hamper from within the closet. The Heavy shuddered. Using just his thumb and forefinger, the Medic pulled his tie free of his collar, and tossed it, seemingly carelessly, over his shoulder. It landed over the Heavy’s face, draping down his back, and he pulled it away slowly, inhaling deeply at the narrow middle section that would have cradled the back of the doctor’s neck all day. The Medic caught his eye. They shared a knowing smirk as the Heavy left the tie to hang undone around his own neck. The Medic approached him with his shirt unbuttoned, hanging open and exposing his wonderfully naked chest, the patterns of greying hair that went from a patch in the middle of his chest, in a thin line down the centre of his body, to blossom out again where it disappeared into his slacks. His knees parted when his legs met the Heavy’s, so he stood straddling the Heavy’s lap over the chair. Giant hands flexed over wooden armrests, threatening to crack them under the force.

"Mein Heavy?" the Medic nearly purred, his tone light, slightly teasing. "Won’t you assist me?" He thrust his hips forward ever so subtly, and the Heavy actually gulped. He dragged his eyes down from the Medic’s to the button on his pants, which failed to hide how well-endowed the Medic was even when he wasn’t erect. Half-hard, the Medic’s cock made a lewd shape in the front of his trousers. The Heavy raised a shaking hand to tug the button free, trying to be patient, knowing that, when his Doktor was in this mood, the Heavy would be chastised if he appeared over-eager, or seemed to rush. The button came loose under his huge fingers.

"Ah, mein Kuschelbär," the Medic sighed, and the Heavy smiled at the nickname. He felt his Doktor’s cool hands tracing up his neck, around his ears, over his scalp. He took this as a cue to continue and gingerly tugged the Medic’s zipper open. His fingers brushed the growing erection beneath, and the Medic tapped him in the middle of the forehead with an index finger.

"Let’s not get hasty," he warned, but it was only a light reprimand. The Heavy grimaced slightly. It was just so hard to resist! He was a passionate man by nature, and really, what he wanted to do was rip the Medic’s slacks off and suck him down until he screamed and cried and came clutching the Heavy’s head or shoulders in a white-knuckled grasp then bend him over the desk and fuck him hard and fast until he came again and howled and forgot his own name.

Yes, this slow torture could have its merits, but right now— right now he wanted to satisfy the throbbing cock in his grey work pants, quickly, before he was tempted to take his frustrations elsewhere.

He wasn’t really thinking about where else he’d go, but as jacking off in the bathroom was an unpleasant alternative, he knew he’d have to wait for the Medic to tire of this game and give in to his own desires. 

The Medic shucked one shoulder out of his shirt, then the other, removed his left hand, then smoothly, his right, and quickly without any warning at all flicked it over the Heavy’s head to obscure his face. The Heavy presumed he was supposed to move slowly, and allowed the scents of laundry and his Doktor to fill his nose before he gently pulled the shirt away.

When he looked at the doctor again he nearly choked. 

The Medic had his pants and underwear shoved halfway down his thighs and was stroking his thick erection with firm, measured pulls. He looked directly into the Heavy’s eyes as he did this, and licked and bit at his own lips, and Heavy suddenly realized they hadn’t kissed once since they’d been upstairs. He tilted his chin up in an invitation. 

"Please, kiss," was all he said. Instead the Medic backed away from him, pulling his pants up slightly. The Heavy could have roared with frustration, but the mischief in his Doktor’s smile reassured him. The Medic sat on the bed and kicked off his boots, then slowly slid his pants down his thighs, over his knees, down his calves, and off his feet, taking his socks and underwear with them so he sat with legs spread on the bed, absolutely naked save his glasses, trailing his own fingers up his inner thigh to tease the underside of his cock again, rolling the foreskin up and down. 

Really, he and the Heavy were similarly sized in that aspect, but on the Heavy, that kind of length and girth looked proportionate. On the Medic it looked gigantic. The Heavy practically felt his mouth water.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Medic finally beckoned his lover to the bed. The Heavy stood, awaiting instruction and still fully dressed. The Medic looked him over and tutted under his breath. 

"Your flak jacket has a hole in it," he commented, poking a finger onto the bullethole and swirling his fingertip around inside it. The Heavy shivered. 

"Unacceptable," the Medic declared. "Take it off." The Heavy hurried to comply. 

"Ach! And your shirt! It is filthy, and completely soaked with blood. Get it out of my sight." The Heavy practically tore the shirt over his head. 

"Hmmm…" The Medic tapped his lips with his left index finger, somehow appearing cool and collected while his cock was flushed a needy, angry red and seemed to twitch toward the Heavy with want. "Something is still not right. Oh!" With this, he pretended to notice the erection straining in the Heavy’s trousers. "You are going to wrinkle your pants that way!" He clicked his tongue and pulled the button open and yanked the zipper down, betraying (to the Heavy’s relief) some of his own impatience. He tugged at the waistband and muttered "Off, bitte," so Heavy stepped out of his pants, and was forced to fold them and put them on the chair. 

Standing in nothing but his striped boxer shorts, he watched his Doktor appraise him again. 

"Yes, I think that will do," he decided, before standing and throwing an arm around the Heavy’s neck to pull him into a fierce kiss that ended up tugging them both onto the bed, Heavy toppling and throwing his arms out to avoid crushing the Medic into the mattress, the Medic merely wrapping his legs as far around the Heavy as he could and grinding into his lower belly, the Heavy groaning and pushing his shorts down, kicking them off, rolling over with hands on his Doktor’s thighs so they could grind hip to hip. The Medic broke away from the kiss, straightened up and pushed his glasses up his nose, combed his hair out of his face, but continued bucking against the Heavy’s cock with his own. He smiled down at his lover, showing his eyeteeth, and ran his hands all over that huge chest and abdomen, raked his nails down, pinched Heavy’s nipples in time with solid thrusts against him. The Heavy’s eyelids fluttered and his mouth fell open. 

"How badly do you want to fuck me, mein Heavy?" the Medic asked softly, never slowing in his assault. "How badly do you want to fill me up?" 

The Heavy’s fingers flexed on his lover’s thighs. 

"Come now, Liebchen, I know you aren’t as reticent as others would believe. Tell me. Tell me how much you want to pound deep inside me, bend me in half and ride my ass, like you want to punish me with fucking." He nibbled at his lover’s jaw. "You know I love the look yours has got… circumcision is such a facinating tradition. So brazen. Tell me, then… Tell me what you want to do to me." The Heavy almost growled, unconsciously pulling the Medic back and forth against his groin, unsure of what even to say in response to all of that.

The Medic tsked, despite the flush in his face and blooming across his chest. He was probably about to say something to the effect of ‘now, now, let’s use our words’, but never got the chance because the Heavy rolled them over again, pinning the doctor down with giant hands under knobbly knees. Leaning over his lover the Heavy looked almost menacing, teeth grit and brows furrowed, but the Medic only smiled back at him like the cat in the cream. The Heavy pushed the doctor’s knees tighter to his chest.

"Doktor…" His voice was low enough to actually raise the hairs on the Medic’s forearms. The Medic shivered.

"There are… many things I want to do. Am no good with English words. Maybe Doktor can guess." He kissed insistently at the Medic’s neck, and the kisses turned into bites and the doctor began to shake and moan. Blindly, the Medic scrabbled for the nightstand’s drawer. He pulled it open roughly and the lamp wobbled. The Heavy watched it settle itself while the Medic paid it no mind and groped around for their tin of surgical lubricant. The Heavy had long since gotten used to the somewhat antiseptic smell, and had actually devoloped something of a pavlovian response to it— a bit of a problem whenever he was in the infirmary for more /innocent/ reasons. Just the sight of the tin made him rumble appreciatively.

He fumbled the tin open and slicked his fingers and slipped them down the underside of the Medic’s erection, over his balls, down his perineum, teasing him by lingering there and not venturing any further. The Medic squirmed and arched, and the Heavy shoved a pillow under him, and the Medic hooked his own hands under his knees to hold his legs to his chest while the Heavy finally, finally allowed his fingers to stroke over the Medic’s entrance, huge fingers nudging him open, making him shudder in anticipation. He gasped when one broad digit breached him, twisting, knuckle by knuckle, rubbing and slicking his insides and stretching the sensitive flesh. With great effort he let go the breath he was holding, relaxed his body, became like jelly with his head tossed to the side and his hair and glasses all askew, panted, tried to take measured breaths, tried to remain calm and relaxed even as the Heavy added a second finger and by the second knuckle he felt speared wide but loved it, loved it, wanted to grind down on that pain, the Heavy could tell by the way the man’s bony feet arched and his hips twitched and his fingers flexed, the way his eyes kept clenching shut despite his best efforts to watch his lover’s face, the way, now and again, he’d bite his lip and furrow his brow and attempt to swallow the needy little noises bubbling up in his throat.

Finally, he gave in.

"Jaaa…" It was one long syllable of rising pitch and volume, and the Medic’s hips rose with it. The Heavy curled his fingers and drove down hard and the Medic almost choked. No matter how many times they’d done this, the Medic’s reactions remained honest, and powerful. He began to shake as the Heavy continued to rub his prostate, and he brought up one hand to push his glasses up onto his forehead, to cover his eyes, to cover his mouth, and actually resorted to biting his knuckle and clawing at his collarbone.

"Ah! AH, mmmein H-Heavy…" he mumbled around the fingers in his mouth. "Ich möc— " he swallowed, "I, I am ready for you." He cleared his throat. "Are you ready for me?" 

The Medic was gripping the sheets, and his knees were spread wide and inviting. His chest rose and fell with deep gasps, his eyes were bleary, and his face was flushed into his hairline. The Heavy couldn’t help but kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and begin to push into him, and kiss him some more, even as the Medic bit at his lips and bucked against him.

"Acchh, mehr! More! Heavy, you know I don’t like it slo-OH! Ohh, jaaa, like that—!" His commentary dissolved into breathy moans as the Heavy immediately set a quick pace, holding his Doktor down, gritting his teeth and trying not to be overcome by the heat, the tightness, the friction, the expression on his Doktor’s face as he bent over him and caused the bed to shake on its posts, as he threw the doctor’s legs over his shoulders and shifted the angle, as he gripped him by the hips and slammed them together over and over and over again. The Medic grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and flung it over his face, muffling his screams. He couldn’t stand it, and soon thereafter chucked the pillow away again, body tensing and thrashing. When he finally reached down to stroke his cock, it wasn’t to match the Heavy’s speed or force. Instead he merely teased himself, fingertips only just lightly brushing along the sensitive veins as he pushed his foreskin down, and skirting the flare of the head, index finger trailing into the slit, movements stilted as his whole body was rocked into the mattress. He moaned low in his throat. 

The Heavy listened and watched and drank all of it in. He licked his lips sympathetically as the Medic sucked two of his own fingers into his mouth. The doctor’s strokes gained pace as he licked his fingers, more messily than one would ever expect of him, and the Heavy fought to stay even faster. The bed creaked and groaned and the Medic began to beg, whispered and half-understood words and phrases filtering into the Heavy’s mind past the haze of the heat clenching around him, and the way the Medic’s mouth looked as he formed each syllable. With one great paw he scratched down the Medic’s ribs, rubbed then twisted a nipple cruelly. The doctor jolted and yelped and writhed, and the Heavy leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of the Medic’s thick black hair and wrenched his head to the side so quickly he heard joints pop. The Medic barked out a delirious laugh, and the Heavy smiled back. The hand in his lovers hair slid down along his ear, across his jaw, petted down the straining tendons in the man’s neck. The Medic opened his eyes, and smiled softly at the Heavy as he continued to pound into him almost viciously, but his hand so gently brushed up and down his neck and throat and then the hand tightened, and the Heavy leaned, cutting off the doctor’s airflow by pressure alone and the Medic choked and tried to gasp and sputtered and came, grinning like a lunatic, wheezing as his body pulsed. The orgasm seemed prolonged with the lack of oxygen and he clutched the Heavy’s hand to his throat, keeping it there, feeling the Heavy’s thrusts grow ragged, beginning to feel the pinch of oxygen loss in his face before the final spurts of his orgasm died away and the Heavy let go, and he collapsed, boneless, letting the Heavy’s motions push him up on the bed. 

The Heavy couldn’t deny the rush of power he felt, choking his lover, being able to decide if he lived or died. They had to be a bit more careful now than they used to, but still… /Still/. 

Prior to meeting the Medic, he’d had to keep that part of his personality, the part that could and would beat a man’s skull in with bare hands and no remorse, separate from the person he’d be in the bedroom. Since beginning this relationship with his Doktor, though, the line was a little fuzzier. 

The Medic reached up one shaking hand, trailed fingers over the Heavy’s lower lip and chin, let it drop with a thump to the bed again, exhausted. The Heavy smiled and leaned down and kissed him, and the Medic slowly wrapped his arms and legs around him, nails gripping into his broad back with each thrust.

The Medic bit the Heavy’s lip and his orgasm almost surprised him— he groaned into the kiss and shivered as it overtook him. 

"Aaahh, jaa, fühlt sich, f-feels, so good when you come inside me… It’s always so much and I… I feel, so full, already…" 

The Heavy rode it out with several slow, deep, thrusts, never trusting himself to break the kiss in case he screamed and brought the whole hotel down on them. He clutched the Medic tight, felt his heartbeat, felt his own heart stutter with the last jolts of his orgasm, and when it was over, breathed deep, to try and align his heartbeat with that of the man in his arms.

After a long few moments of hanging in the balance, waiting for time and the world to catch up to them, the Heavy moved off of his lover, rolled onto his back, sighed and stretched and pulled a cover up to his waist. The Medic turned and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his shirt and gingerly moving to the bathroom to clean up. 

"You know," he called from the en-suite lavatory, "I am surprised that it never seems to leave ligature marks, when you do that."

"I use palm of hand," the Heavy replied, reclining on the bed with arms behind his head. The Medic leaned out of the bathroom, studying his lover, wondering if they’d ever had a conversation about what ‘ligature marks’ even were, and if not, where he’d picked up that particular English phrase. His mouth quirked slightly. 

"But you would think that with the force you exert, it would damage sufficient capillaries to bruise at the very least…"

"Doktor is not sore?"

The Medic laughed. 

"Of course I am sore! Wonderfully sore. But the interstitial bleeding must be fairly deep, because… Well, you know I’ve always bruised somewhat easily, and I won’t call it a fault, but I do find it strange they never seem to show up on my throat after you’ve choked me. A mystery…" He ducked back into the little washroom and the Heavy heard the water run. "It is really for the best, I know, since we have another one of those interminable meetings tomorrow. That poor woman, Fräulein Pauling? I’m sure she feels nothing ever gets done, with the way meetings keep ending like they did today." The Heavy grunted in response. ‘Nothing getting done’ used to be business as usual. It seemed to have taken a harder edge to it in recent days. 

"And that Scout! It’s deplorable, the way he goes on… Especially since it’s obvious the little lady can’t keep her eyes off of /you/."

The Heavy choked and sat upright in bed. His brows furrowed.

"What you are saying, Doktor?"

The Medic leaned in the doorway, still in his unbuttoned shirt, having combed his hair somewhat and resettled his glasses. He crossed one leg in front of the other.

"Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The dear woman wants /you/, liebling."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make plans.

"Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m not the type to imagine such things. You know I have better ways to occupy my time. She shows all the signs, schatzi!" He counted off on his fingers as he listed them: "Always asking your opinion, if just to get a chance to talk to you, always standing close to you; I’ve seen her make sidelong glances at you in the midst of meetings, usually when someone else is being ridiculous— really, she is much less discreet than I am. Odd, considering her direct superior’s utmost demand for discretion. Perhaps she is unschooled in matters of the heart?" The Medic gave Heavy a lopsided smile. "That would be almost, sweet, don’t you think?" 

The Heavy just blinked, slowly.

"Oh, and let us not forget the personal ad."

The Medic continued to talk, but the Heavy, with a glimmer of guilt, tuned him out. What was he supposed to think?

Well, it was just the Medic saying these things. He oughtn’t jump to conclusions. It made his chest tighten a little to think about, but that didn’t mean it was ultimately true. And, how did his Doktor feel about this theory, anyway? He seemed jovial about it, but was that because he was so certain the Heavy would never stray? Or was it because he really didn’t care if he did? 

He loved the Medic, but he wasn’t sure how he’d feel about the man thinking he owned him, and while he definitely didn’t want to make his Doktor jealous or upset, he hoped the man at the very least gave a care about where he spent his nights. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if the Medic wanted to sleep with someone else and had to shake off the feeling. 

"Doktor, why you are saying this?" He seemed to have interrupted the Medic, who raised his eyebrows, then tilted his head with pursed lips. 

"What do you mean, mein Heavy?" He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Have I… insulted you in some way?" 

"Insult? No, Doktor… You tell me these things, is it you want me to, ehh, do something?"

"Hm? Like what?"

"With Miss Pauling!" 

Unconsciously he gripped the sheet tight in one hand and had wound the other into a trigger position with the hem. The Medic still stood in the doorway, mostly naked, and seemed to contemplate the Heavy’s frustration.

"Do /I/ want you to? That… I think it is more pertinent whether or not /you/ want… you to. Don’t you think so?"

It didn’t sound like a trap, with the tone of the doctor’s voice so even and honest. He felt his heavy brows furrowing.

"Doktor, I… do not understand. If… If little Miss Pauling and, and me… If we, ehh…" he gestured in the air. "Would not Doktor be… upset?" As soon as he’d said it, he regretted it, and hurriedly added, "Am not saying I would!" The Medic seemed to be thinking it over, but then, he shrugged, and padded over to sit on the bed and rummage in the chest of drawers for a pyjama set. 

"I trust you, mein Liebling." He smiled at the Heavy, then laid his crisply folded pyjamas out at the foot of the bed. The Heavy nodded. So, that’s how it was. After all that. 

But he didn’t even have time to feel trapped by oblique morality because his Doktor said, “And if you and our dear little Fräulein were to engage in intercourse or something of the kind, I believe that you and I share something, how should I say, /unique/… and I trust that it means enough to you that you wouldn’t forsake me.” His smile was warm and earnest as he stood to gather a towel from the closet. “Is that naïve of me? Should I worry, be a jealous green-eyed monster?” He smirked over his shoulder. The Heavy was nigh dumbfounded. “No, I don’t think that is in my nature. Besides which, when you said you loved me, I believed you. I believed it was something that couldn’t be changed by a bit of hanky-panky on the side.” 

'/Hanky-panky/'? the Heavy thought, almost in spite of himself. 

"If I am wrong," the Medic said, turning to face him again from the bathroom door, "Then by all means, correct me. But, otherwise, I don’t think I have anything to worry about." He flashed the Heavy a grin again before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door. The Heavy heard the shower squeaking to life and stared at the Medic’s pristine pyjama set. The man wouldn’t put on clean clothes if his body wasn’t washed, and he wouldn’t wear dirty clothing to bed unless he absolutely positively passed out. Strangely though, the bedclothes themselves could be drenched in sweat and full of a filthy, sticky Heavy (as they frequently were) and he wouldn’t breathe a word in complaint. Idiosyncrasies and all, his Doktor was HIS Doktor, and he really, really did love the man. 

He was too full of affection and warm fuzzies to even /consider/ straying to anybody else. 

That is, until the next day, and the next meeting. He watched Miss Pauling a little more closely, and found that she did seem to pay him an awful lot of attention for a man who wasn’t shouting vitriol or muttering cutting remarks in response. At one point he moved around the table to peer at a different section of map, and sure enough, she was soon at his side. He tried it again, to check, and had his suspicions confirmed. Suddenly, he was oddly nervous. What was he supposed to do if this woman, basically his direct superior, /was/ interested in him? The Medic seemed to think he’d just jump into bed with her, but would he? Should he? He chanced a look at her and accidentally met her eyes and she looked away quickly and adjusted her glasses and the Heavy thought he heard the Medic chuckle but the man was as stoic as ever when he glanced in his direction.

The meeting crumbled, as usual. This time, the former BLU Scout got bored, and asked if he really had to be there, and could he just go home, and the formerly RED Soldier called him a deserter, and threatened him with dishonorable discharge for going AWOL, and the Scout had countered with a vehement “That don’t mean shit, you crazy fuckin’ fruitcake,” and the Soldier informed him that it would be dishonorable discharge from the end of a cannon, and that if he didn’t change his tune he’d quickly find himself with a bugle poking out where the sun don’t shine, to boot, at which point BLU’s former Demolitions Man asked him if he even /had/ a cannon at his disposal and the Soldier claimed that he could get ahold of one if the need arose, even if it meant getting Engie to build him one, and even as he clapped his former teammate on the back the man was mounting protests about being dragged into this cockamamie nonsense, and the formerly RED Spy pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head and the formerly BLU Sniper rolled his eyes and tugged the brim of his hat over his face and RED’s former Heavy believed this was because the man knew he wasn’t going to be paid for his time in this increasingly ridiculous meeting and the formerly RED Pyro seemed to have given up and was leafing through a surprisingly unsinged copy of Hot Rod Magazine dated to January of 1966. When the Heavy looked across the table at his Doktor, the man arched a brow and reached up to his shoulder to smooth the chest feathers of the dove perched there. Miss Pauling tried to get the room to settle down but eventually slumped over the table and told everyone, fine, you know what, go home, go to the hotel, go to the bar and get roaring drunk, whatever, just go, but report back in the morning, in case of robots.

As the room cleared, the Heavy tapped the woman on the shoulder. She looked up at him with her lips pressed into a grim line, daring him to make any more problems for her. She searched his face and he hesitated, trying to come up with the right words. RED’s former Medic, his Doktor, stifled a smirk only Heavy could see and packed up his things. His expression was nearly wicked. 

'Laugh all you want,' the Heavy thought. He at least wanted to get a question answered. 

"You, eh. You have gun too, yes?"

"Are you suggesting I fight robots with you all?" She looked flatly at him and her tone was non-negotiable. 

"What? No. Only wanted to ask, what gun is it?"

"… Why?" She twirled a pencil in her fingers, flipping it from one hand to the other. 

"Saw you buying bullets, was, ehh, curious. Bullets were Remington .44 Magnum, 250 grain jacketed hollow point. You were maybe hunting large deer…?" He looked at her hands and could hardly believe she could fire a handgun that took those cartridges, without breaking her wrists. The kick on a .44 was well-known and was too much even for regular use by law enforcement. 

"Oh that?" Miss Pauling remembered the trip well, even though it had been some time. "Yes, a friend wanted to sell me his M29 but even before test-firing it I noticed the locking bolt was a bit loose so I decided against it. Can you believe he made me buy my own rounds to test it out?" It was a smooth lie, even if she wasn’t sure she had to cover up her role as cold-blooded murderer, among the mercs. She briefly wondered if it would have impressed the Heavy, had she told him the truth. No, better not, she reminded herself, fully aware she didn’t /need/ to impress these men. 

"You have other guns, then?" Guns were something he knew, something he obviously had a bit of a passion for. Nobody else on base had ever seemed to understand. He’d had conversations with the Sniper, to whom the rifle was more a tool than anything, with the Engineer who talked of endless upgrades and changes and couldn’t understand the beauty of a gun with its own original design, and all of its supposed imperfections, and even with the Soldier, who frighteningly enough seemed to understand the Heavy’s feelings about his Sascha, if only because he felt similarly about the Shovel. For some reason the Heavy couldn’t wrap his head around that one. 

If he could have an actual discussion with someone, he would welcome it, even if it was with someone unexpected like Miss Pauling. 

"Oh, yes." She brushed imaginary stray locks behind her ear and pushed her glasses up her nose again. "I’m a little bit of a collector."

"Only for collect, not for shoot?" The Heavy was a little disappointed. Gun collecting was such s bourgeois hobby, too. 

"What? No, of course not. What’s the point of that?" She waved a dismissive hand in the air. "That’s disrespectful to the gun, to put it in a case somewhere for decoration… It denies the function designed into… into every inch and pound of steel. Honestly." The Heavy smiled down at her. "What?" 

"No, is true. I am understanding this. Take for example my Sascha. She is beautiful machine, work of art. All tiny springs and screws must work in absolute precision, with power like that, because is no such thing as leetle problem in big gun. So, all parts are very finely tooled, yes? Much work to build, and more to maintain. But, if not to shoot, what is purpose? Expensive flowers-vase? Pah." Miss Pauling nodded along, so he continued, taking a seat at their map table and gesticulating. Miss Pauling pulled out a chair nearby and sat with her fingers steepled in front of her. She remained quiet, so he continued: "Can not put on the wall like nice painting, because, is not to understand joy of machine, of power from trigger finger, all the way up the arm, through entire body, and VOOM, flying out as far as custom cartridges go. Some people, they have nice car, and if they do not drive it, then what, eh?" He paused and a grin crept onto his face. "But, usually, is not to crush enemies with nice car. So that is, ehh, what is word? Bonus."

The lady’s lips turned up a fraction and the Heavy had to assume she had a mean streak in her, somewhere, under the demure, businesslike exterior.

"Pictured you for a Blackhawk kind of girl, at the time," he commented. 

"You know something, I actually DO have a Blackhawk, it’s funny you should say that."

"Three-screw, .44 Mag?"

"No, .357 Mag Flattop."

"Barrel length?"

"Er, six and a half inches. And I got it with the stag grip…" She actually blushed, and the Heavy wondered if she was embarassed about the cosmetic choices she’d made in purchasing that gun. Or maybe it was the fact that if she bought it new from the factory with that grip, it would have had to have been five to ten years ago, and she didn’t want to reveal her age.

Either way, she was very pretty when she blushed. 

Again her hand flickered up to brush hair behind her ear and resettle her glasses. She used her index finger to push her frames up her nose, the Heavy noticed. The Medic was in the habit of gripping his eyeglasses by the hinge and lifting them into place, if he didn’t take them off entirely and clean them before he’d even think of realigning them. He wondered what the different methods implied. 

"Anyway," she interjected, shoulders suddenly straightening, "I should be getting back to HQ, and you should probably get some rest." She stood to gather maps and intel printouts, folding everything into a purple samsonite briefcase with a reflective stripe around the middle. She didn’t look up and the Heavy thought it was a very sudden dismissal. Well, maybe the Medic was wrong. That would be fine; he actually felt a little embarassed that he’d gotten caught up in the tale when it shouldn’t matter, really, if Miss Pauling was attracted to him or not. He almost dreaded facing the Medic after this, too, the way the man acted about his (apparently baseless) suspicions… like the whole thing was a huge cosmic joke at the Heavy’s expense.

When the Medic found him in the bar at the hotel, several hours later, and tapped him on the shoulder, his eyes seemed to glitter behind his spectacles. 

"Well then?"

The Heavy answered carefully, and in Yiddish, unwilling to let his more boistrous and half drunk teammates in on this latest farcical development. The Medic tutted and patted the Heavy’s shoulder, and said, not to worry, she might need a bit of time, is all, she’d show her true colours eventually, and the Heavy furrowed his brows at him. He pushed his stool back and began the trek to the stairs, and the Medic stood for a moment, surprised, before following. 

In the relative safety of the elevator bay on the mezzanine, with nobody else around, the Heavy sighed and passed a hand over his scalp. He should probably shave tonight, he thought. The Medic stood a few paces away, uncertainty in his posture and his expression. An elevator arrived and the Heavy stepped in, nearly filling the space alone, and when the doors began to slide shut, he put out a hand to stop them. The Medic looked at him and the Heavy stayed put, so the Medic hurried in, and the Heavy allowed to doors to close. As the elevator climbed floors, the Heavy gathered his thoughts. 

"It seem to me," he said finally, "You want very much I should do some kind of thing with leetle Miss Pauling. Why is this?" The Heavy had begun to worry that maybe the Medic was bored with him, and was trying to pawn him off on someone else, or that he thought a heterosexual relationship would be preferable for the Heavy and was trying to be selfless, or, worst of all, that the Medic was secretly seeing somebody else and that he was trying to assuage his own conscience by pushing the Heavy to do the same. He didn’t know when the Medic would have the /time/ for another lover, but they weren’t attached at the hip; there /were/ times they weren’t together. Like when the Heavy spoke to Miss Pauling after the meeting, for example, and an hour or so after that, for that matter. He wondered what kind of information he could get out if direct questioning before he’d have to resort to something more sly. 

"I only want you to be happy, mein Heavy," the Medic answered quickly. The Heavy raised a brow and the Medic caught his expression reflected in the metallic surface of the polished elevator doors. 

"Seeing you happy makes me happy," he continued, unconsciously straightening his gloves. The Heavy crossed his arms. 

"And maybe I wanted to watch."

The Heavy’s eyebrows shot up. His hands fell to his sides. 

"You, ehh—" 

But then the doors opened with a ping and a scrape of metal-on-metal, and the Medic ducked out of the small space and walked with longer strides than was strictly necessary to his door. He fumbled with the key as the Heavy approached, and when he got the door open, seemed unsure of whether or not he’d let the Heavy follow. A simple door of course wouldn’t really stand in the Heavy Weapons Guy’s way, but he’d prefer to avoid hotel property damage, if at all possible.

He stuck a boot in the doorway, just in case, and the Medic relented and stepped aside. The Heavy moved slowly into the room while the Medic shut and locked the door. Sitting on the bed, the Heavy leaned on his hand, letting the other hand drum on the coverlet. 

"Will you cease that repetitious racket?" the Medic snapped, but without his usual vigor. He kept his hands behind his back, and the Heavy suspected this was to keep them from any nervous fabric-twisting or twitching. The Heavy stopped drumming, anyway. 

"Doktor."

"I wasn’t sure how you’d react."

The Heavy lifted his head.

"And I didn’t know how to bring it up, nor where to find an appropriate, ah, subject, for the… experiment."

The Heavy remained quiet.

"But then I noticed the way our dear Miss Pauling looks at you, and it seemed like a— a singular opportunity. I thought," the Medic began to pace, "that if I could alert you to her, hm, /feelings/, I suppose, that perhaps you and she could… work something out. And then," he glanced at the Heavy, and his expression was odd, "if that occured, I thought you might be persuaded to allow me to— to /observe/."

The Heavy remained silent for a long moment, and the Medic stared him down.

"But Doktor," he rumbled, at length. "…Why?"

The Medic plucked his spectacles from his face and pulled a cloth from his coat pocket. “Well,” he said, gloved fingers moving the cloth deftly over the glass, “Being with you sexually is always so pleasurable for me, and I wanted to watch somebody else experience that, and see how they reacted. I… hm. There are several reasons, mein Liebling.” He slid his glasses back into place and cut his eyes across the room at the Heavy as if daring him to be so bold as to question his motivations further. 

The Heavy gave the Medic a hard look, puzzling the situation out. How many ways could this possibly go badly? Could they lose their jobs (such as they were) for this? /Was/ Miss Pauling even interested? He straightened up and put his hands on his knees.

"Maybe is better, then," he began, then pushed up to stand, invading the Medic’s personal space with his sheer size alone, "if YOU have talk with leetle Miss Pauling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I thought this thing would be wrapped up in two parts, but it’s taking longer than I thought to get Heavy and Pauling to Blackhawk Magnum Three-Screw.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are enacted.

The Medic moved quickly and efficiently. As soon as the next morning’s meeting was dismissed he approached the woman and asked for a brief word. The Heavy was unsure of whether or not he should stay, but a look from the Medic kept him standing by the door. Miss Pauling glanced between the two of them, while the Medic took a seat and invited her to do the same. 

"Now then," the Medic began crisply, folding his fingers on the table, "If I may be direct, let me begin by asking how thorough exactly was your surveillance of the goings-on at RED?"

"Absolute." 

She sat primly, almost mimicking the Medic’s posture, though she extended her arms in front of her to lace her fingers, while his elbows were crooked and rested just off the edge of the table. The Heavy was struck with the brief sensation of looking at both sides of a funhouse mirror.

"The Infirmary? The sleeping quarters?"

"Of course." She pushed her glasses up her nose. 

"So then you’ve seen…?"

"Everything."   
"And yet we still kept our jobs." 

The Heavy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Medic was so calm, and clearly suspected all along there were cameras in even their bedrooms, and, to be fair, so had the Heavy, at first. Only, he couldn’t find them without being obvious about it. 

Miss Pauling shrugged. “It did not interfere with your jobs, and you were not engaging with any employees of Builders League United.” She was so matter-of-fact, but she pointedly did not look in the Heavy’s direction.

"Oh? Does that rule still apply now that the teams have merged?"

"What you do now is up to your own discretion, so long as you continue to kill robots."

"Despite our homophilic activity and the fact that it is, as I understand it, illegal in most parts of this country?"

"So, Mr. Medic, is murder." 

Miss Pauling began to stand and gather her things. 

"If there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you gentlemen a good day—" She’d barely stepped away from her chair when the Medic stopped her with a raised finger, and a small smile.

"Actually, I do have one more question."

The lady turned but did not sit. She merely waited for the Medic to get on with it. 

"Is what you do up to your own discretion?” 

Her posture became ever so slightly more rigid. So did the Heavy’s. 

"Because," he continued, "I believe you have taken something of an interest in our Heavy Weapons specialist, and I wanted to know if you were under contract not to do anything about it."

"I beg your pardon—"

"Oh! Am I wrong? Well in that case I do apologize…" He didn’t look sorry. He was grinning like a lunatic. Finally, she chanced a look at the Heavy.

"Well, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think about all this?” She crossed her arms and the Heavy wondered if she was actually annoyed or if it was defensive. The Medic turned his attention on the Heavy as well, and the large man looked between the two of them. He shrugged.

"Am not really sure." That was true enough. They both seemed expectant, though, so he supposed he had to give them something less noncommittal. He sighed and stepped toward them.

"Is Doktor right?" he asked the petite lady quietly. He didn’t look at the Medic, but could see him still with that somewhat evil smirk, out of the corner of his eye. "Is alright if is not."

"That depends on what you mean by ‘interest’," she answered.

"Meine kleine Fräulein, with all due respect, what do you think I mean?”

She fiddled with the measuring compass they’d been using to chart maps, turning it over and over in her hands. “I am trying to discern whether or not you are threatening me,” she replied lightly, twirling the compass with its sharp points pressing into her fingertips. “… And what exactly I would do if you were.”

A brief silence passed between them.

"Threatening?" the Heavy asked incredulously. The Medic sputtered and laughed. 

"Threatening!" the doctor echoed. "No, we are propositioning!" 

Miss Pauling looked dubious. She wrenched the compass open and shut. After a moment’s pause, she squared her shoulders and faced the Medic down. 

"You are… inviting me into a… threesome?"

"Well…" the Medic tilted his head. "Yes and no. You see, I would not be an active participant."

"You would what, watch? Take notes?" Her lips turned down.

"Well I probably wouldn’t take notes…”

"You are a voyeur, Mr. Medic?"

He scoffed. “I wouldn’t use that phrase,” the Medic insisted. 

"What phrase would you use?"

"I am a scientist Fräulein Pauling, and a great deal of science involves observing reactions.”

"Uh huh…" She sounded unconvinced. Actually, the Heavy doubted the Medic somewhat as well. She turned to him, and looked up at him over the rims of her glasses.

"Tell me something," she demanded calmly. "Do you plan to simply go along with this, on his say so?" She gestured to the Medic, who appeared mildly affronted. "I thought you a stronger man than that."

The Heavy’s expression darkened. “Is not only because Doktor want,” he intoned. 

"I don’t believe you’ve stated even once your opinions or intentions, here." 

"I don’t think you say if you want, either."

"Well I should think that much would be obvious."

"Is not."

"Alright then," she shifted on her feet. "I want it."

"Would you mind telling us why, out of all the men under your command, you chose him?" the Medic interjected, sounding giddy. The Heavy half expected him to pull out a clipboard to jot down the dear lady’s answers. 

"Actually, yes, I would mind." Her lower lip stuck out a bit and she seemed to bristle at the doctor, and the Heavy hoped this tension wasn’t going to become an issue. The Medic brushed it off. 

"Ah well," he replied, standing and straightening his coat, "I suppose we can’t always have everything we want."

She cut her eyes across the table at him, lips drawing into a thin line, but he busied himself with pulling his gloves tight and gathering up the Medipack. 

"Well then!" he declared with finality, shouldering the device with a little hop to settle it, "What time works best for you, Fräulein Pauling?"

"I—!" She pursed her lips and turned to the Heavy. He could only offer her a smile, as gentle as he could manage. In spite of himself, he discovered he was somewhat excited to see how this arrangement played out. The lady placed her briefcase on the table and pulled its snaps open, then pulled from within something similar to the Engineer’s construction PDA, but slimmer, sleeker, and black. The compass became a stylus as she tapped away at its screen, brows twitching here and there. The Heavy had not the foggiest idea what she could be doing, but eventually she looked up from the contraption to say, "Wednesday evening, around eighteen hundred hours, barring unforseen circumstances or death." She pushed her glasses up her nose again. 

"Wünderbar," the Medic responded, clapping his hands together and  
striding briskly over to her. “We shall see you then. I expect we’ll  
convene here?” She nodded once, crisply, and his answering smile  
showed his canines. “Gut, gut. Auf wiedersehn!” On his way to the  
door, the Medic paused to lay a hand on the Heavy’s shoulder. “I’ll  
leave you two alone,” he murmured, glasses flashing under the bare  
lightbulb hanging overhead. His coat swished as he left, and the Heavy  
thought he heard the man begin humming, in the hallway. He thought it  
might have been “Mack the Knife”.

The snaps on Miss Pauling’s briefcase were loud in the mostly empty room. She turned to the Heavy, and pursed her lips.

"I hope I don’t regret this," she said. 

"I, eh, hope you don’t regret, too." He hoped none of them did. Her knuckles were white, gripping the briefcase. 

Even if it still felt like cheating, even if he didn’t know why he wanted to, the Heavy stepped into her personal space, and stooped a little bit. Her eyes widened, but she stood up on her tip-toes. With a bit more leaning and her free hand on his forearm, their lips met. He kissed her sofly, much more gently than he did the Medic. One of his hands practically cradled her whole head. 

She dropped her briefcase and flung her arms around his neck, and when he placed one hand on the small of her back and the other under her shoulderblades and straightened up slightly, she was lifted a few inches off the ground. One of her slides fell off, and the toe of her other shoe scraped the cement floor. She was insistent, moving her lips over his quickly and clawing his shoulders and neck. 

For a moment, she pulled away, but it was only to pluck her glasses off and drop them on the table, before she was reaching for him again, craning upwards. He dipped his head, and she kissed him again. She was the first to lick at his lower lip and scrape her teeth against it, to open her mouth to him and seek the same. Slowly, he parted his lips, and she fairly devoured him. His pulse stuttered at the soft sound she made as she pressed her body into his and curled her fingers in the back of his shirt. 

She left lingering kisses on his chin and jaw before she broke away, settling down onto her feet again. She toed back into her shoe, and squinted up at him. He picked up her glasses and delicately passed them back to her. She rubbed them briefly on her hip and resettled them.

They surveyed one another for a long moment. 

"You… should know," she said slowly, "I have wanted this for quite some time." 

"With me?"

"With you."

The Heavy turned to the side. He couldn’t stop the small smile that lit across his face. 

"Well…" he glanced sidelong at her trying and failing to constrain his grin. "I am finding that I am looking more and more forward to it, the more we are talking." 

She blushed again, but smiled back at him. 

"Maybe you could afford some time to tell me a little more about your gun? Maybe over coffee?" Her dark eyes were warm over the rims of her spectacles.

The Heavy’s expression grew pained. 

"Miss Pauling, I…" He sighed and passed a hand over his scalp. "I can not— I should not have dates with you. Doktor—"

"I don’t mean to intrude on what you have with your Medic… despite the fact that he invited me into it, in the first place. I was quite serious. I would like to hear more about your minigun, and I wasn’t sure when I’d get the chance… Unless you think during our, how should I put it, ‘rendezvous’,” she mimed quotes in the air, “would be an appropriate time.”

"To talk about guns?" He looked up at the ceiling, considering, and after a moment his mouth quirked up. "Well…" he said. 

Miss Pauling chuckled, and it was the first time the Heavy heard her laugh. It was quiet, and wicked, and not the most feminine laugh he’d ever heard, and he liked it. Very much. 

"Maybe," she said.

They parted ways; she said she had a lot of paperwork to do, and he mentioned that he probably hadn’t been paying Sascha enough attention of late. On his way back to the hotel, the Heavy felt a pleasant buzzing in his guts. When he met up with the Medic later, he gave the man a small, bashful smile, and the Medic beamed at him. 

"I am so glad," he murmured when they were in the elevator together again, "that you are willing to do this." He clasped one of the Heavy’s hands in both of his own. "Ach, mein liebe," he brought the Heavy’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them each, hungrily. "I, oh, just look at me. I had planned to abstain from sexual contact with you until after Wednesday’s activities, but, I am not entirely certain I can resist."

The Heavy’s brow twitched. “Why you would want to refrain?” His efforts to curb his smile were rapidly failing.

"Oh," the Medic crooned, tucking himself into the Heavy’s chest, clinging to the flak jacket with desperate fingers. "I thought I would work myself into a froth, a— a furor, that way. And, I thought, the event would be that much more rewarding, if I had nearly a week’s frustration built up. But…" He pushed his nose in under the Heavy’s chin, nuzzling the stubble there and nibbling, licking, inhaling deeply.

"And what about me, Doktor?" the Heavy chided, amusement in his tone. The Medic looked up at him with wide eyes, caught in thought for a moment.

"Ah, I suppose it might have been somewhat selfish of me." He withdrew slightly, looking contrite and holding the Heavy’s hand more gently. It was a strange look for him. "Actually, this arrangement with Miss Pauling is fairly self-serving, and I hope it— well, I hope you will get something out of it, as well."

The Heavy made a noncommittal noise and shrugged one shoulder. The elevator announced that they’d reached their floor. He allowed the Medic to exit the elevator first, as usual. 

Should he let the Medic know about the kiss with Miss Pauling? 

He walked slowly after his lover, his own swaying gait accented by the creak of the floorboards under the carpet. 

He never would have thought to pursue the woman, were it not for the Medic’s intervention. 

The Medic’s long strides had him at his door within moments, and he waited there for the Heavy to catch up. He held the door open, and the Heavy sidled in and sat on the bed. 

There was a minute of pause in which the Medic locked the door, shrugged out of the belts and straps of the medipack, shucked his gloves to set them on the desk, peeled off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, loosened his tie and came to stand before the Heavy. 

"So," he declared, fingertips resting on the Heavy’s shoulders, "What should I do?" 

"You are really very excited, Doktor," the Heavy replied. He was angling and he knew it. 

"Well, I— How could I not be? I just think about what is to come… Oh, she may have watched us but she does not know what it feels like yet. I can not wait to see her face when you enter her. You are so big, schatz, and you will fill her up…” His fingers traced looping patterns over the Heavy’s arms, shoulders, and neck. “I am going to have a difficult time staying quiet, I know. And when you— ah, I shouldn’t say any more. I do not wish to ruin it, after all.”

The Heavy still wanted to know more, but knew better than to push it. Instead he gathered his Doktor into his arms, pulled until the man’s knees buckled and he fell into the Heavy’s lap, stroked huge hands over the satiny back of the Medic’s vest. The Medic made a noise not unlike one of his birds, and the Heavy chuckled. 

They fell into bed not long after, the Heavy on his back and the Medic draped over him like a middle-aged and lightly snoring duvet. The Heavy lay awake for awhile, after the Medic fell asleep, lost in his thoughts and wondering at the days to come. 

By the time that Wednesday rolled around, his excitement had faded. With six days to contemplate possible rammifications, it had turned into apprehension. Three more meetings he’d attended, between the concoction of their plan and this, the day of its proposed execution. Each time, their dear Lady in Lilac had been perfectly businesslike. He didn’t know what else he expected. 

Battles came and went, and at times he thought he might welcome them as reprieve from the rising doubt in his gut— the worry that altogether this was a bad idea and he was a fool for letting the Medic talk him into it, and especially for getting swept up in it, himself. 

Well.

The smart knock at his door came at five o’clock, sharp, and he roused himself from his bed to meet who could only be his Doktor. He answered the door in his civvies— a dark red polo shirt and black trousers— and watched the Medic (still in the larger portion of his uniform) look him over. The man nodded twice before standing aside for the Heavy to pass. 

There was practically a spring in the Medic’s step as they made their way down to the lot where the ambulance was parked. He was unable to contain his grin and when he turned that chipper expression on the Heavy, looking at him through the rear-view as he climbed into the back, the large man could only force a weak smile in return.

"What’s the matter, schatz? Performance anxiety?" he turned in his seat to regard his lover, who sat hunched in the rear of the gutted truck, with his hands folded in front of him.

"Is nothing," the Heavy assured. The Medic looked too happy for him to say anything, and besides, he’d promised Miss Pauling. 

The old ambulance didn’t have a radio, but the Medic sang, humming where he couldn’t remember the words, and tapped on the wheel as he drove. The Heavy merely sat back and breathed deep, trying to relax and inhaling the oddly persistent and frankly confusing smell of cake frosting that clung to the back of the Medic’s vehicle.

When they pulled up to the outpost that had served as their meetinghouse for the past few weeks, the Heavy slid out of the back of the ambulance and cracked his neck. His heart began to pound as they approached the door, and the Medic knocked. 

"Yes yes, I’m here," Miss Pauling called from inside. 

The room was exactly the same as he’d left it after the team’s last meeting, and Miss Pauling herself stood next to the table, absently twirling a pen over her fingers. The Heavy watched her take in his off-duty appearance (which, doubtless she’d seen before, through her apparently exacting surveillance) but when she smiled at him he felt his face heat. The Medic watched and grinned.

"So," he began, but Miss Pauling cut him off.

"I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a room. It isn’t in town but you can follow my car." 

"Of course," the Medic recovered. He looked at the Heavy.

"Eh, Da. We will follow." 

"Why don’t you ride with our lovely hostess, mein liebling?" the Medic cooed, fingers just barely brushing the Heavy’s wrist. 

The Heavy met his Doktor’s eyes, brows knit. The Medic’s smile only grew wider but his intense expression didn’t change, otherwise. The Heavy tilted his head, and the Medic inclined his chin slightly. The Heavy relaxed his shoulders. 

"Da, okay. I will ride with, eh. With you, Miss Pauling."

Her lips turned up at him and as she passed on the way to her purple pickup truck, he found himself watching the sway of her hips. He’d never seen the dress she was wearing, before. It was similar in cut to another dress she owned, but the material was different, satiny instead of stretchy, with a circle cut out of the upper back. He got the impression that she’d worn it just for this. Just for him. He trailed after her, watching her shoulderblades appear and disappear in that little window in the back of her dress. The Medic followed, after him. 

The Heavy was a little embarassed at the way her truck creaked as he stepped up and slid into the passenger seat. He thought it might be leaning on his axles, and made to leave.

"Maybe is better I ride in back of Doktor’s ambulance. Leetle truck is—" 

Her hand landed on his forearm and he turned. Her expression wasn’t pleading. It wasn’t much of anything, mouth in a neutral line and brows perhaps slightly lowered behind the frames of her glasses. He shifted, and closed the door. 

The ride to wherever they were going was bumpy, and her 1954 Chevrolet didn’t have any seatbelts, and he worried that his weight was going to cause the truck to overturn, as he watched Miss Pauling bounce in her seat whenever they hit a bit of uneven road. Her bare thighs stuck to the leather and he licked his lips unconsciously, only realizing after the fact that he’d done it. He caught her glancing over at him. She smirked and shifted, and her dress rode up just a little more. The Heavy smiled back at her.

"Tell me," he said, and she glanced over again, "You have gun collection. Do you have a favourite?"

"Oh, um. Well, don’t tell anyone, especially a Soldier, but a few months back I bought a 1936 9mm Parabellum 1908 S/42—"

"A Luger?!" He was a little surprised that the favourite of her collection was also the favourite of the Wehrmacht. 

"Right. I got it at the estate sale of a World War II vet. Lots of G.I.s brought them over here as war trophies but mostly I’ve seen the later models with the Bakelite grips and I don’t really like plastic on my guns, so I was really excited to find this earlier model with the walnut grip. It’s in really good condition, most of the blueing and straw are still intact and the whole thing’s matched, you know, the serial numbers." She paused and shrugged one shoulder. "Honestly I don’t really care about the finish all that much, like, how much of the blueing remains or whatever. I mean," she waved one hand in the air, the other gripped the wheel, "Where the finish and grip are worn, it means it was actually used, and I mean it dry-fires beautifully, so…"

"So whatever Nazi owned it before your G.I. did took good care of it." 

"Er. Well, yes." Her arms and shoulders were tense as she stared straight ahead. "Look I’m not going to pretend there’s not some kind of perverse joy in owning something with a connotation like that. It’s just, it’s—" a flush was beginning to creep across her cheeks and she hunched forward. "I mean, look at the angles on a Luger, the tightness of the mechanism… The Walther P-38 that they replaced it with has nothing on the absolute beauty of the Parabellum, that slim line of the barrel, the dramatic oblique between the barrel and the grip… And think about the name: Parabellum. It’s Latin for, ‘prepare for war’. That’s, I mean." She took a deep breath and straightened. "I like it, is all." 

The Heavy aimed a wry grin in her direction. She rubbed her knees together. 

"Mm, so a Luger P.08 and a Ruger Blackhawk .357. This is interesting to me. I am trying to learn what kind of woman you are, through what kind of guns you have. So far it sound like you enjoy high-pressure cartridges. Tell me another." 

She brushed her hair behind her ear and tilted her head in thought. 

"I have a Webley Mark VI dated 1918. It’s not in the best condition, aesthetically, but it fires nicely, considering it’s over half a century old."

"Converted?" The Heavy asked.

"No."

The Heavy laughed and she blustered.

"What? I like the original, and besides, the filing is bad for the gun, despite its popularity. Sure the cartridges are harder to find, but—"

"No, no. Is not that." He glanced to the rearview. The Medic still followed behind. He wondered what the man was thinking.

"Well, what, then?"

"Webley Mark VI, if I remember, is for .455 caliber rounds. I am beginning to notice a pattern."

Miss Pauling huffed. 

"Tell me another," he said.

"I broke down and ordered an Ambassador from the Mann Co. catalog. I think your Spy has the same grip I do— cherrywood, can you believe?"

"Engraved like his?" the Heavy smirked.

"That isn’t a factory option," she sniffed. "He had that done on his own." 

"Recoil on that is strong. Doktor say the Spy get ‘tennis elbow’, from shooting it." 

"Well, it’s fitted for .667 caliber rounds, so you’d expect a hefty recoil. Of course, he fires one-handed, like a flashy /idiot/…" She tucked her hair behind her ear again.

The Heavy’s brows shot up and he stared at her. 

"Again, what?" Miss Pauling looked up at him for a moment, lips pursed.

"But, your hands and wrists are so tiny."

"What’s your point?"

"… I am impressed."

Miss Pauling stilled for a moment, watching the road. 

"Oh," she said.

"Am betting you are deadly good shot."

"I, ah. I am, yes."

"Are you a killer, Miss Pauling?" His voice had dropped to a quiet growl, and the Heavy watched goosebumps spread on his companion’s arms.

With her eyes on the road, Miss Pauling nodded.

"Good," he almost whispered, leaning closer to her. "I do not like bedding people who do not understand." 

Her flush from before had spread to her ears. She nodded again. 

"I have a particular weakness for strong women," he added conspiratorially. "Do you think, in a fight between you and me, you could win?"

She looked him over, out of the corner of her eye. “Given the proper setting, it’s possible. Would it be hand-to-hand, no weapons involved?”

"Yes, let us say."

She tsked, but continued. “Well I don’t think I could take you in boxing.”

"In boxing we would not be in same weight class." 

"I prefer weapons, anyway. Do you think less of me for it?" 

"No. Would like to watch you with a gun. Would probably be sexy."

"What, at a shooting range?"

"No," he intoned. "Not at a shooting range." Growing bolder, he reached out one hand to trail fingertips along her thigh, just under the hem of her dress. "Shooting robots is not the same as shooting men. Still fun, but robots do not bleed. Do you know what this is like?"

Her expression when she turned to him then was intense. “I’ve never shot a robot,” she said. 

The road curved to avoid some of those oddly-shaped rock formations jutting up out of the landscape. When they came around the bend, the Heavy could see some buildings in the wavering distance, across the desert. The two remained mostly quiet as they approached their destination, but the Heavy kept his hand on Miss Pauling’s thigh until they arrived.

The Medic joined them as they climbed out of the truck, and Miss Pauling produced a key to the main building of what turned out to be a Mann Co. Coal Town Souvenier Snowglobe Factory: abandoned, but recently so. 

"The ‘snow’ is actually coal dust," she explained. "I’d advise against smoking in here." 

They walked between the machines on the factory floor, past the foreman’s office, and down a corridor, emerging outside, where a series of corrugated steel bunkers sat a little ways away, butted up against a rock face. 

"What’s this?" the Medic asked, curious as Miss Pauling began leading them towards the steel sheds. 

"Well they were worker’s quarters, for factory employees working more or less around the clock, and then they became rented rooms, presumably for snowglobe factory tourists, looking for the ‘authentic experience’." She shrugged. "The rooms are spare, but servicable."

"Why not take a room at the hotel in town?" the Medic persisted.

"I have an image to maintain in front of the others, Mr. Medic, please." She cast him a flat look, over her shoulder and he threw up his hands in defense. 

The room looked, to the Heavy, very much like any of the ones he’d been given on any of the bases his team cycled through, before this robot business began. Based on the purple coverlet, the Heavy thought Miss Pauling must have come by earlier. He sat on the bed, hesitantly, and the Medic pulled a strange Eames chair knock-off away from the wall, to a better vantage point. Before he sat, though, he fished in his vest pocket.

"For your own protection, Fräulein Pauling, I brought these along." He produced a plastic sandwich bag with a few condoms shifting around as he proffered it. 

The lady offered him a tight-lipped smile. “You needn’t have worried,” she said, and, snapping open her briefcase, withdrew a few of her own. 

The Heavy suppressed the urge to smack his own face. Reaching into his pocket he showed he’d brought a couple as well. 

The Medic broke the awkward silence with his cackling laughter, and settled himself in the chair. He looked between the two of them expectantly. Miss Pauling rolled her eyes and turned, with her back to the Heavy.

"I know this is stupid, but could you get my zipper?" She focused on the wall, and not on the Medic who was leaning on his knuckles with amusement in his eyes. "There’s a little hook, at the top," she advised, and the Heavy grasped the zipper pull, gently, and slid the zipper open, from the bottom of the cut-out circle. The hook was at the base of her neck, and she lifted her hair out of the way for him as he squeezed the clasp open, and undid the two buttons under it.

He wasn’t sure how he should be acting. With previous female lovers, in what seemed like another lifetime, he would be stroking skin as the dress came open, sliding fingers in under the fabric. With the Medic watching, he didn’t know if he shouldn’t appear too interested, too excited.

She turned to face him, shrugged out of the capped sleeves and shimmied the skirt over her hips. Her underwear didn’t fully match her brassiere, but there was a bit of black lace, here and there, and he brushed his thumbs over it, traced the lines of her hip bones. She kicked the dress to the side and smiled at him. Her shoulders were tense, and as the Heavy smoothed his broad hands over them, each palm encompassing the whole slope from neck to deltoid, he glanced around her at the Medic. 

The man made shooing motions with both hands and after that aggressively avoided the Heavy’s gaze.

The Heavy shifted his attention back to the woman trailing fingers over his jaw and scalp, behind his ears. He gathered her to himself and buried his face between her breasts.

Even through the material of her bra, she was warm and soft and he slid a hand down the curve of her chest, his fingers playing over the flesh while he nosed over to the other, kissing and sucking through the fabric. He couldn’t let the vertigo of where he was and why suck him down. He pressed his mouth against her ribs to distract himself, vision entirely filled with lace patterns. She shivered and hissed through her teeth. 

The Heavy didn’t understand what the Medic could be getting out of this. He didn’t understand voyeurism, and didn’t much understand the concept of ‘free love’, either. As he kissed his way down his partner’s ribcage, feeling rough against her despite having shaved for the occasion, he knew he’d just have to take the man at his word.

She clutched at his skull as he moved his mouth over her skin, and leaned into him, and soon she was kneeling over his lap on the bed, feet dangling off the edge. She kissed his forehead, his brow, his temple, glasses getting smudgy as she nosed against him. She pulled them off and the Heavy took them gingerly, placed them carefully on the nightstand.

He caught sight of the Medic as he did, took in his casual posture, the way he leaned on one gloved fist propped up on the arm of the chair. It was at odds with his unapologetic leer. The Medic licked his lips and canted his chin at the Heavy, one eyebrow raised in challenge. The Heavy turned back to Miss Pauling.

Without thinking, he combed a hand through her hair, pulled it from its sensible bun. Let loose, it fell in a sheet around her shoulders, stark black making her look paler, highlighting the pinkness of her mouth, making her look petulant, and young. He knew it was an illusion; she was probably around his age, really. But, with her glasses off, her lashes stood out against her cheeks, and she almost looked innocent. 

"When was first time you kill someone?" he murmured against her ear, inhaling the scent of her hair, and her neck. 

"I really shouldn’t say," she whispered, pulling at his shirt, untucking it. 

"Am not asking who it was…" his tone was almost teasing. 

"I was just barely twenty-one," she admitted, distractedly. The Heavy was pulling his shirt over his head. 

"Hm. Is later than I would think." Her hands slid over his pectorals, seeming tiny to him. He could feel a callus on the farthest joint of her right index finger, and another on the palm of her left hand. He grinned. 

"Actually I was fairly young for a— well, for what I was doing," she replied. Her fingers drew patterns through his chest hair. His hands moved to cup her rear. 

"How did it feel, first time?" His thumbs dallied with the lace again, tugged minutely at her elastic waistband. 

Miss Pauling sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Honestly? Unsatisfying.” 

"Really? Then why you keep doing it?"

"I was good at it." She shrugged and shifted her weight, encouraging his questing hands. 

"And that’s all?" His index fingers hooked into her panties, pulled them unhurriedly over the swell of her ample behind, danced his fingers over the exposed flesh.

"I didn’t say it was always unsatisfying. My first sexual experience wasn’t all that great, either, and I clearly haven’t given up on that.”

The Heavy laughed at that, and she smirked back and rolled her hips, inching her underwear down further. 

The Heavy gaped. She was absolutely shaven, and he’d never had a girl that shaved everything. It was an honest shock, and she touched his face, met his wide-eyed glance with concern. 

"Is everything— do you still want to do this?" she asked quietly, pads of her fingers lingering beneath his jaw. 

He wet his dry lips, searching her eyes for nothing in particular, and they both jumped at the scrape of the Medic’s chair across the floor as he shifted to another position.

"Oh!" the Medic fairly chirped, and the Heavy could follow the man’s line of sight and see that his Doktor was as surprised as he was. He felt Miss Pauling tap him on the chin, and snapped back to attention. She raised her eyebrows at him, and he nodded minutely, and shifted back on the bed. 

The box springs groaned under him, and he winced, but leaned into Miss Pauling’s hand as she ran her fingers down the back of his neck and up to the back of his head. She pressed harder against his skull, urging him forward, and he followed her lead, until his face was pressed into her cleavage again.

His hands drifted to her ass, feeling how soft the flesh was, how pliant under his fingers. The Medic had a thin man’s ass, muscular and toned, and while he loved feeling its firmness as he spread his Doktor open or gripped his hips and pushed into him, this was not without merits. She sighed as he squeezed, and he smiled into her breasts as he nibbled between them. 

She reached awkwardly behind herself to unhook her bra, pushed it off of her arms and let the Heavy fling it away. In a sudden move he rolled them over, so she lay on her back looking up at him. He stroked down the length of her body with one hand, neck over shoulder, shoulder to breast, breast down to ribs and ribs to hip, palm sliding hip to thigh to knee, back up along the inner thigh, down again, pushing her knees wide until she wrapped her legs around his. 

With his nose pressed into her shoulder, wide mouth lacing over her skin, he didn’t see her hand move. He felt it, though, when she palmed his cock through his slacks, fingers flickering around, looking for sensitive spots. He inhaled sharply, and she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him to full hardness through the fabric. 

He heard the Medic’s breathing grow heavier, off behind him, heard him stifle some kind of mewling sound when Miss Pauling unbuttoned the Heavy’s trousers and slipped her hand in, under the waistband of his favourite skull-and-crossbones boxers, to grasp him, skin to skin.

She moaned low in her throat, fist moving slowly up the length of his cock, fingers lingering at the head. 

"Holy Christ," she murmured. "It feels even bigger than it looked in the surveillance footage."

The Heavy snorted against her throat.

"You make joke about ‘touching my gun’ and I will bite you." She felt his smirk, matched it with her own. 

"And that’s… a threat?"

Scraping his teeth just under her ear got a quiet groan out of her, so he tried it again, and again, moving down her neck, over the slope of her breast to tease and lick at her nipple, teeth just barely there. She couldn’t reach his cock after that, and her fingers scrabbled at his belly, her other hand alternately squeezing and clawing his back, and he sucked a little harder, tongue flicking until she was rolling her hips and arching her back. He shifted again, teething her ribs, the dip of her hip, the hot crease where her thigh met her body.

With a steadying hand on one of her knees, he pushed his tongue between her folds and licked a stripe up to her clit, a taste, pressed his nose into her soft, shaven skin, and inhaled deeply. She jolted up into him and he rode the waves of her body, rubbing her clit with the flat of his tongue. 

She began panting, each breath coming out as a little ‘oh!’, and he glanced up at her to see her tossing her head from side to side on the pillows, fingers gripping the coverlet, her whole body moving to push up into his mouth. He was vaguely aware of the Medic moving again, coming to sit next to the bed. When the Heavy shifted slightly and slid a finger into her, he heard two separate gasps. The Medic slapped his hands over his mouth, staring wide-eyed at the Heavy’s thick digits pushing into their immediate supervisor, who shuddered as she moaned. 

"Ah, fuck…" Her voice was strained, and her hips moved erratically. "Jesus. That’s just—" She yelped when he curled his finger inside of her, pressing deeper, feeling how hot and wet she was inside. "That’s just one finger?!" The words came out in a rush, heels of her feet skidding on the bed covers. 

"You want to try another one?" he mumbled against her, rubbing her from the inside, twisting his wrist and watching her face contort.

She groaned and bucked. “I can feel your calluses, when you thrust in,” she crooned, eyes closed.

He pulled his finger out slightly. “Is no good? Too rough?” 

"Mmmmnnooo…" she drawled. "Is that your trigger finger?" 

"Eh. Yes. I should use other hand? I should maybe stop?"

"No!" she exclaimed, propping herself up on her elbows to glare down the line of her body at him. Her face was flushed and her hair was mussed, and with anger flashing in her eyes, she looked fucking amazing. “Fuck me goddamn hard with it, or I’ll put my goddamn Smith and Wesson down your throat and make you swallow all six bullets and the one in the chamber.”

The Heavy paused. He had to take a steadying breath at the bolt of lust that shot through him.

"You have only one Smith and Wesson?" he asked to calm himself. 

"I only have one with me," she clarified, tone dangerous. "And I only need one to get the job done. So what’s it gonna be?” Her lips twitched as she stared him down, and he groaned against her and felt a shiver go down his spine. 

He watched her reach under the pillow and pull out a Model 57. With the click of the hammer he had two fingers inside of her, working hard and fast, pads of his fingers seeking pleasure spots. The cold barrel skirted the ridge of his brow, and he chanced a look at the wielder. She’d collapsed back into the pillows, eyes closed despite her finger curled around the trigger. The Heavy had no doubt it was loaded. He scissored his fingers inside of her and worked his mouth over her, faster, taking in deep panting breaths, his nose pressed into her skin. 

Over the rise of the lady’s thigh, the Heavy could see the Medic biting his finger, looking agape, watching the gleam of the weapon in Miss Pauling’s hand as it came to rest against his lover’s forehead. His other hand drummed absently on his knee, slid slowly up the seam of his trousers, rubbed his inner thigh. The Heavy wondered if his Doktor was getting off on the idea that at any moment, the dear lady’s finger could slip, and she’d put a bullet right into the Heavy’s brain, assassin-style… or the way her simple gesture held so much power, and that she exercised that power to make him pleasure her… or that she wanted this, wanted the Heavy’s lips and tongue and thick, questing fingers, enough to threaten his life over them. His cock throbbed, and he twisted his fingers in her and her free hand clutched at his scalp. She grit out a warning, a promise, and the Heavy bore down on her, rumbling wordless promises right back, and a beat, two, three, later, she arched up off the bed, gasping, moaning, hips thrashing under him, into him, as he licked and fucked her until there was a loud bang and a crash and she had to push him away. 

She lay back on the pillows, smoking gun still pointed at the corrugated steel ceiling, where a noticable dent had appeared a little over her head. A lamp lay shattered on the floor, a casualty of the ricochet. 

Heaving a great sigh, she ran the still-warm barrel over her breast, looking down at the Heavy who still lay at the foot of the bed. They smirked at eachother and the Medic made a high-pitched sound of delayed shock. 

“How could you—” he rasped but the Heavy cut in with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

"Is okay, Doktor. Is still another lamp." The Medic squawked but the Heavy chose to ignore it, concentrating instead on kissing across Miss Pauling’s inner thigh.

She hooked the muzzle of her revolver under his chin, tilting his head up. The metal was hot, and he looked into her eyes, hungry. She looked positively wicked. 

"Why don’t you come a little closer?" she suggested with a little half-smile. He scooted up the bed until they were face-to-face again. 

"That’s better," she said, delicate fingers hooking into the waistband of his already unbuttoned trousers. She toyed with the fabric a moment, and the Heavy took another galvanizing breath. So did the Medic. A swift tug and the elastic in his boxers was stretched under his cock and balls, holding them away from his body, making him hiss. Miss Pauling kneeled up in front of him, playing the barrel of the gun down his throat and over his collarbones. 

"Part of me wishes I’d brought a different piece along," she whispered, pushing his pants over his ass and down to his knees. 

"Which one?" the Heavy rasped back, feeling his heartbeat even in the tips of his fingers and toes. 

"Oh, I don’t know…" she answered off-handedly. "Something a little less… Utilitarian?" 

"Well," he grunted— she’d begun sliding the barrel up the underside of his cock— "It, eh. It isn’t Model 58, anyway." 

She hummed in agreement and nudged the edge of the muzzle into his slit. He gasped and grabbed fistfuls of the blanket. The barrel slipped down the top of his cock, the muzzle traced around the base, under his balls, and he grunted when the sight scraped his perineum.

"You would maybe bring your Parabellum?" He tried to joke, but his voice came out strained. 

“Vas?!”

The Heavy had the pleasure of watching Miss Pauling grin obscenely at the Medic. 

"I have a Luger, Mr. Medic. And I’ve owned three Walther P-38s. Does that bother you?"

"It. Surprises me," he answered, resettling his glasses.

"Have you ever owned a Parabellum, Mr. Medic?"

"I beg your pardon—"

"Or fired one?" 

"Certainly not!" 

"What a shame…" She drew the barrel back up under the Heavy’s cock, then scooted forward to align the two. With the hammer pressed into his soft flesh and the barrel alongside his shaft, he both compared his slight upward curve to the factory-straight lines of the Smith and Wesson, and watched Miss Pauling size the two up.

"It’s almost as long as you," she commented, though they could all see that. The muzzle just brushed the ridge of the head, and it made him suck in a breath. He noticed with a bit of pride and humour that she’d favoured the 8 3/4" barrel.

"I have noticed second pattern," he wheezed, as she lazily skirted his cock head with the cooling metal.

"Oh? And what’s that?"

"You like long-barreled weapons."

"If you’re making a reference to your own ‘equipment’…"

The Heavy laughed and then choked when the sight scratched his balls again. 

"Was not, but you can think so I am." 

The Medic snorted and the Heavy winked over the lady’s shoulder at him.

She rubbed the barrel along his flank and he watched her face, flushed, and intent. 

"What weapon was it you used, for first kill?"

Miss Pauling made a face. “Fifty milligrams of Uranium-235.”

"You were building bombs?"

"No. It was administered by direct injection."

The Medic straightened up. “Really? That seems rather peculiar. What was the impetus for that?”

"I really shouldn’t say," she murmured, stroking the Heavy’s thighs.

"Was it for experimental purposes? What did you learn?"

"That the lethal dose for U-235 in a human is 1 milligram per kilogram body mass."

"Fascinating," the Medic responded darkly. "What was the sample size of your test?"

"Eighteen subjects."

"Hm. Rather small. And the lethality?" 

"Within eighteen months, the entirety of the pool was deceased."

"Wonderful!" The Medic clapped his gloved hands together. "Wait. Were you not trying to kill them?"

He couldn’t help it; the Heavy cracked up, shaking the bed with deep, rolling laughter, and gradually, Miss Pauling joined him, until they leaned together on the bed, cackling, while the Medic said “What? What?" and flailed his hands. They only howled louder. 

"Will you just get on with it?" the oldest man huffed, shifting in his seat. 

"He might have a point," she intoned, trailing a finger up the Heavy’s slightly flagging erection. "Wouldn’t want you to lose interest."

"Is not lack of interest—"

"Just a lack of stimulation?" She wrapped her fingers around him, stroked hard and slow, maintained eye contact and her devious grin. The Heavy sighed and felt the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

"First time, you say was unsatisfying," he grit out, as her palm rubbed over his tip.

"Yeah I mean, I was young, and so was he, and he didn’t really know what he was doing. I mean I guess neither did I, but he didn’t really attempt any kind of foreplay, just, you know, tried to stick it in, and—”

"Not that," the Heavy chuckled.

"Oh. Oh! Right, right. Yes. I didn’t really like the process, or waiting around, watching people die of cancer or radiation poisoning. One of the subjects was dead within two and a half days of injection, and that was a little interesting, but it was really just another note on a clipboard. At the time, though, I’d go to the shooting range to relax, and eventually I realized that hypodermic needles were not my weapon of choice.” She paused. “No offense to you, Mr. Medic.”

Her hand sped up and the Heavy stifled a sound.

"What, eh…" His eyes fluttered. Her hands were so soft, except for those telltale calluses. "What was first time you enjoyed it?"

"Hmmm…" She looked up to the ceiling, her hand reaching down to fondle his balls. "Let me think." Her other hand held the gun, drew mindless patterns with the muzzle against his belly. "I imagine it was… Well. It was just a small action against a group of leftist dissenters, and Senator McCarthy would, ah—" She glanced up at him.

"Am not Communist. Father was killed by Communists. Was put in Gulag by Communists. Am not Communist. Go on."

"Yes I know," she said off-handedly. "It’s not that. Nevermind. It was supposed to be just surveillance, but we found the group building small explosives, and were given the go-ahead to move in. It didn’t go exactly as we’d hoped, but that’s not the point. You see," she slid her hand from base to tip again, "One of their number got a little antsy, charged us. He had a hunting rifle, Winchester, if I recall. He looked down his sight, targeted my C.O. It was strange, everyone was shouting, running around, but I feel like I still heard the hammer on that rifle click. I braced and fired, his shot went wall-eyed. He fell, everyone scattered, we arrested five of the seven that day. The sixth we picked up two days later at a gas station, and the seventh, I’d killed."

"And you liked it?" 

"I felt a sense of accomplishment. I felt like I’d saved the life of my superior officer. I felt… Well I felt a sense of power that can be difficult to attain for a female government employee." 

"Hngnnn…" the Heavy replied, as she fingered his slit.

"And the adrenaline rush… But mostly I think it was the power. And, I like firearms."

"I can tell," he smiled dazedly. 

“‘Happiness is a warm gun,’” she quoted. 

"Your gun is mostly cold, now."

"Oh, well, I still have six shots left." There was mischief in her eyes and the Medic made a panicked noise behind her. "You would prefer I didn’t, Mr. Medic?”

"One accidental gunshot in this enclosed space miles from town is enough, thank you!" he snapped.

"Accidental? Who said anything about accidental?”

"You—!"

"It was a calculated risk."

The Medic tensed, and relaxed. 

"Alright. Fair enough, Fraulein Pauling." He probably realized he didn’t have a leg to stand on.

"Nnf," the Heavy grunted. Miss Pauling had begun stroking him rather roughly, and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. She moved forward to press against him, trapped his cock between her wetness and his belly, ground against him a few times. 

"Mr. Medic, if you please." She held out a hand, and he took a moment before realizing what she wanted and reaching into his pocket. He placed a wrapped condom in her open palm and she tore the packet with her teeth.

The Heavy swallowed a sound as her deft fingers slipped the rubber down his length, the slight pressure as she pinched the tip of the condom driving him mad. She sat back a little, raked her eyes up his body, smiled crookedly at him when their eyes met. He watched her kneel up. 

"Do you have a good view, Mr. Medic?" she crooned, poised at the Heavy’s tip. The Medic cleared his throat, licked his lips. 

Miss Pauling began to sink down.

She tipped her head back as she was stretched. Her mouth fell open and her eyes fluttered closed, and by the time she was fully seated, she was panting. So was the Heavy. So was the Medic. 

"Ungh," she said. "Fuck. You’re really huge."

She paused for a few moments, breathing deeply, then lifted herself up again. The Heavy watched his cock reappear, the condom shining and wet, glanced to the Medic, saw that his Doktor’s eyes were glued to the same sight. The Medic shuddered when the lady hovered with just the tip inside her, stared wide-eyed as she shifted slowly to rub the head against her insides, drank in the way she writhed as she began the push back down. 

The Heavy’s hands drifted to her hipbones, but didn’t push or pull. He wanted her to control the speed, wanted to know her pace. His jaw tightened as she ground her hips against his, felt her thighs stretched wide around him. His breath hitched when one of her hands found his and pressed down. He gripped her just a little tighter and she huffed out a little moan, driving herself down harder. He lifted the other hand to a breast and played over it, and the high-pitched sound that came from her throat made him buck up into her. She cried out and the Heavy watched her face, watched her brows draw together and her mouth twitch as if to form words that never came. Over her shoulder the Heavy could see the Medic with his face flushed and his glasses slipping down his nose, his fingers straying closer and closer to his fly, arm shaking. 

"Do you want to touch yourself, Doktor?" the Heavy rumbled. Miss Pauling attempted to look behind herself. The Medic made a desperate sound, and the Heavy inclined his chin at him. The doctor’s fingers were quick over his buttons and zipper, pulling himself out into the air. He gasped with relief when his cock sprang free, and the Heavy grinned. Miss Pauling rose and fell again. The Heavy shifted to move with her, and they all took up a growing pace, the Medic stroking himself in time with the coupling on the bed. 

"Isn’t it wonderful?" the Medic whispered. "How does it compare to your expectation?"

"It is," Miss Pauling sighed, "So good." 

The Heavy leaned forward and kissed her again, and she groaned into his mouth and threw her arms around his neck and bit his lips over and over again as he held her hips and bucked into her. She broke away with a gasp, clawing into his shoulders.

"So, so good," she murmured, scrabbling for her gun on the sheets. Slowly, she drew it up his arm, over his shoulder, until the muzzle sat nestled just under his jaw. "Harder," Miss Pauling demanded. "I want everything you’d give to him," she tilted her head at the Medic, "like I’ve seen you do." The sight flicked his ear. "Don’t make me wait."

He rolled her onto the pillows again. “You want to be fucked like Doktor?” She jabbed him under the chin. “Whatever you say,” he whispered, holding her down with one hand on her shoulder, his other hand fitting into the crook of her knee to bend her nearly in half.

He moved, and the bed shook, clanged against the corrugated steel siding that comprised the walls. She kept the M-57 locked into the hollow of his throat, the steel biting into his trachea as his whole body rocked with his thrusts. 

"Doktor," he groaned, "If she shoot me right now, what you think would be cause of death?"

"Asphyxiation," the Medic gasped. "Your trachea would collapse, and you would be unable to pull air into your lungs." The man’s eyes were huge and moonish behind his glasses, his voice high and wavering as he fucked his fist. "Shock would exacerbate it, and even if the respiratory organs weren’t entirely ruined, likely you would choke on blood." He blinked rapidly, sweating, breath hot and heavy between his lips.

"I find it hard, to believe that in the years, you were employed with Rel— Reliable Excavation and Demolition, you never got shot— in the throat," Miss Pauling wheezed. She clawed the coverlet again.

"Maybe. Maybe I did. Cannot remember. You feel too good." The Heavy’s bracing hand moved to the bed and the gun prodded him more insistently. He shivered.

"How does it feel, mein Lieb? Is she tight?"

"Yes, Doktor. Very tight. Very wet. Hngh…"

"And you, Fräulein Pauling, how are you feeling?" He looked half-mad, almost rabid. 

"I feel so, so full, Mr. Medic. Your lover’s cock is… It’s so fucking deep. Dunno if anyone’s ever fucked me this deep. Is this what it feels like when he fucks you?”

"Mm, ja, meine kleine Fräulein. It feels like he is fucking my throat, he is so deep. I feel like I will lose my mind. And the stretch. He is like no other lover.” 

"Fucking, that’s for damn sure!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Not like any I’ve ever had."

"Nor like any you may yet have." 

The Heavy tried to ignore their exchange. He didn’t know how to feel about the way they went on. It brought equal measures of ego and embarrassment to burn hot beneath his eyes. He felt Miss Pauling shudder beneath his hands.

She rolled up into him, rubbed his corded neck with the barrel of her Smith and Wesson. He lifted her hips up off the bed and drove into her. 

The Medic moaned, long and loud, arching up out of the chair, peering down his nose at them. The Heavy watched the man lick perspiration from his lip and grip himself even tighter. 

"If she shot you, right here, right now, mein Lieb, I’m not," the Medic swallowed, "I’m not sure you would respawn."

"You are scared, Doktor?" He felt the gun under his jaw, warmed almost to the heat of his skin.

"Terrified," the Medic answered. He fucked his hand all the same.

"I’m close," Miss Pauling murmured. "So close…"

"I am betting you go off like a gun, too…" the Heavy grunted, feeling her thighs shake around him. "Cannot believe you wanted this. Cannot believe you wanted me."

"What?" Her eyes fluttered. She breathed rapidly, heavily.

"Because you are boss lady. You signed our checques. You are very beautiful. Very capable. Could have any man."

She did not answer. Her eyes closed again and she seemed to go very still, before her spine arched, her body thrashed, and she stuttered out a broken moan. The Heavy felt her clenching around him, so tight it just about hurt, and then even though he could see her mouth moving as she cried out, he couldn’t hear it. There was a buzzing in his ears, and it wasn’t until he smelled gunsmoke he realized she’d fired over his shoulder, right next to his head, and he came, groaning, bucking hard into her as she rolled with him. He looked to the side. The Medic met his eyes and then buckled, coming over his hands, curling in on himself, looking like he might cry. When he turned his attention back to Miss Pauling, she was just coming down, her hair sticking to her forehead as she brushed her still-warm weapon against her cheek and stared up at him with eerie, shining eyes. He glanced to the Medic and saw a similar look peeking out from behind his glasses.

They were both beautiful like this. 

He pulled out of her and she jolted once before settling against her coverlet again. Out of the corner of his eye the Heavy could see the Medic tugging a kerchief from his breast pocket and toweling off. When he looked up from his hands he grinned devilishly at the Heavy, and the huge man did not know what to do with that look. Not with Miss Pauling panting beneath him, not with sweat from fucking her cooling on his back. 

He sat back. He couldn’t hear anything but he was used to that. Most of them got tinnitus after a battle. They became adept at reading expressions and body language. Miss Pauling’s knees flopped to the mattress and she stretched her legs out, letting the sheets soak up the sweat in the creases of her knees. Her chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. The Doctor’s eyes shined with mischief. The Heavy peeled off the condom and tied it off.

He observed them. The Medic approached the bed and surprisingly, Miss Pauling rolled over once to allow him room. The Medic sat on the bed, tucked away but with his trousers still undone, and patted the Heavy’s knee. 

It would be alright. 

The Medic looked so deviously happy, the Heavy could hardly believe otherwise. 

Later, in the Medic’s ambulance, when the Heavy’s hearing had returned, the Medic gushed. 

"That was wonderful, mein Liebe," he insisted. "You were magnificent. Watching you, it was amazing. I could see how well she loved it, how much you pleased her."

The Heavy didn’t say anything. His Doktor liked to rehash things; it was best to leave him to it.

"And," the Medic said breathlessly, "It is delicious, because she will never truly have you. Not like I do. She may have had this, but she can’t have you really. Because you are mine. Aren’t you, Schatz?” There was no doubt in his voice. The question was mere punctuation. The Heavy watched the road. It made a bit more sense now. 

But it would be alright. 

They would continue to fight robots, they would work with Miss Pauling, and when the waves stopped coming, then maybe they would… He didn’t know. What would they do? What would little Miss Pauling do? He had no fear for her. He had more fear of her, of what she could do, in the future. The future they all shared. Whatever it may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Thanks for sticking with me, thanks for reading! 
> 
> And, as always, if you want more, you can find me on tumblr under the same username~!

**Author's Note:**

> Note: pretty sure Pauling’s gun in Meet the Director is supposed to be the Big Kill (despite the raised sight along the barrel), which, if memory serves, is a cartoonified lovechild of a Colt .45 and a Smith & Wesson M29… But both of those owe their popularity to westerns, and the M29 in particular to Dirty Harry which didn’t even come out until 1971, and I’m shooting (har har) for 1968 here, so I decided to hypothesize about a Ruger. Anyway, I don’t really know a heck of a lot about guns so if anyone out there knows better than I do, I’d love to hear your input.


End file.
